


Like You Were Walking onto a Yacht

by summerstorm



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Exhibitionism, F/M, Masturbation, Uniform Fetish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-31
Updated: 2009-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-05 11:03:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High school AU. <i>Megan knows what she's doing here.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Like You Were Walking onto a Yacht

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://community.livejournal.com/ai_kinkmeme/profile)[**ai_kinkmeme**](http://community.livejournal.com/ai_kinkmeme/), prompt 'Megan/Anoop high school AU- Megan the popular girl seducing Anoop the math nerd. Him as her tutor, maybe? Sex in a classroom would be great. Private school uniforms (button-downs, skirts and knee socks, him with a tie) a plus.' Believe it or not, I actually stuck to the prompt. For the most part.

Megan knows what she's doing here.

Really, she does. Just because she has the slanderous reputation of being _easy_ doesn't mean she'd actually throw herself at a _nerd_ to stop him talking about polynomials. Sure, she's not waiting for _the one_ to hand over her v-card, plus she's pretty sure she couldn't find it where it got lost somewhere on the road from Utah anyway, but she has _standards_. And needs a B+ on Algebra to go to cheerleader camp this summer, so there's no way she'd currently have a hand around a mathlete's _tie_ and she'd be pulling him closer.

Nuh-uh.

"Megan," Anoop says, looking up at her through a pair of not entirely unaesthetic glasses. "Megan, you need to pay attention." Megan bats her eyelashes. That is, she _blinks_. She's not _flirting_ or anything lowly like that. She's learning math. "Megan, you need to get off—"

"Yes," she agrees.

"—my _desk_," he says, a little more forcefully than he intended, she's sure. Megan Joy does not get _shot down_, let alone by geeks who have nothing better to do with their time than _tutor her_. For free. "Ms. DioGuardi's desk, I mean." He's all flustered now, good. Or, no. No, that's not good. Her grip on his tie tightens. He whines, "Go back to your chair."

Megan knows _exactly_ what she's doing here, and that's getting through this hour of extra numerical _torture_, and then treating herself to the movies with Jesse and Alexis. She wonders what Jesse and Alexis are up to now. Jesse's probably on her new motorcycle, having way more fun than Megan. It's _April_. The sun's out. Thinking about Alexis is comforting, though: she's probably at church. Alexis says she _likes_ choir, but seriously, who does she think she's kidding. Megan knows there's a choir boy or two she'd like to corrupt, though, so she forgives Alexis. And commiserates with her through mental vibes for being in a place with walls and a roof when it's so nice outside.

"Megan, you really need that B+," Anoop explains. "It's going to take you a while to get there, and I suggest you don't waste both my time and yours until you understand this," he says, pointing to the book. Then he adds, "I mean, ever. I suggest you stop wasting both our times right now."

"You sound like a real teacher and everything," she says. His gaze flies down to her cleavage when she pops a couple of buttons on her shirt open. It's so easy, she thinks with a flicker of accomplishment, and then realizes this is not what she's supposed to be doing.

It's just, the _tie_. It's all proper and responsible-like, unlike what most of the boys Megan hangs out with wear it like. She wouldn't have to pull hard at all to choke Anoop. And his shirt is ironed and prim, and everyone would notice if Megan messed it up. And they'd pretend she'd just happened to be at the wrong place at the right time, because there is no way Megan Joy would hook up with a _mathlete_, hell no, but his lips are so pretty when they talk about equations. That mouth could be so good between her legs, if he applied himself a little, and he totally would. She knows he would. He's totally that kind of guy.

She uncrosses her thighs and maybe spreads her legs a little, is sprawled all over Miss DioGuardi's desk before she knows it.

"I think I should get off first," she says, and her voice sounds strange to her own ears. It sounds like so many rumors, rumors that are _not_ true about Lit teachers and heady cheerleaders, and Megan's having an out-of-body experience right now, she is. This has got to be what Mrs. Abdul was talking about during Psychology the other day. It's like the words and actions are happening before Megan can stop them, but she's not drugged or stoned or anything, she's so aware. "And maybe I'll get off the desk _afterwards_, if you know what I mean."

She notices how good Anoop smells before she realizes she's leaned forward and ducked her head into his neck, and it makes her wonder if maybe Anoop Desai is inadvertently seducing her, and that's why she's acting like this. She's under some kind of spell. She's going to kick his ass when it wears off.

But he's pulling back. Why is he pulling back?

"Megan, you need a good grade, you don't want me, and I don't want you to sleep with me just because you want to distract me from algebra, okay? Step back, sit down, stop this stupid game. I know what you're doing."

"That makes one of us," Megan says, but she sits back. Still on the desk, but she glances at the textbook and on her way down, she notices Anoop is hard before he has the presence of mind to cover himself. "You don't want me, huh."

"Never said that," Anoop states, coughing. "Focus."

"Fine," Megan says, and steps around the desk and into the chair where she was supposed to be sitting this whole time.

Her awareness is all coming back now, being restored by the breeze coming in through the open windows, and Anoop still looks ridiculously ravishable in this light. It's a surprising realization. Like, this is their third tutoring session, the first one in an actual classroom instead of the library because Anoop apparently thought it would be good for Megan's attention span and asked Miss DioGuardi personally, and Megan's not sure why Anoop's gone to such lengths if he doesn't want to _do_ her. They're all alone in—practically the entire floor, if not the building, and all the staff trust Anoop so stupidly that they wouldn't even _suspect_ him of—and he's a teenage boy, there's no reason he should care about betraying their trust.

"I don't," he says. "I don't know what you think I'm like with our teachers, but it hasn't actually come up in conversation for me to promise someone I would never have sex with my tutorees during... tutoring hours in school property. Though there's probably a rule somewhere."

"So?"

"So you don't want me. You want to not study, and I'm sorry, but I draw the line at being a _prop_ in one of your little self-destructive stunts."

"Dude, a: what self-destructive stunts? and b: like you're in a position to _draw_ a line," Megan says. It sounds more bitter than she expected.

"Remarking upon my very, very obvious, believe you me, status in the social hierarchy in this school is doing nothing to endear you to me."

Like she was trying to be _adorable_, what? "Who says I want to endear myself to you, asshole?"

"Your claim that you don't know what self-destructive stunts I'm talking about," Anoop says, and then he leans back and frowns. "Okay, wow," he says, blinking. "Wow. You're really not into this at all," and she _knows_, she knows he's just saying that so she'll admit—something. Whatever. Something she doesn't _want_ to admit, not even to herself.

"I'm totally into this," Megan says, "start talking," and she sprawls back on the chair and settles her gaze on Anoop's mouth.

"These things generally sink in deeper if you put more than just your ears to them," Anoop points out.

"Was that a pun?" Megan asks, gasping. "Did you just innuendo me?"

Anoop lets out a long-suffering sigh. "No. And innuendo is not a verb. And—okay, I guess listening is better than getting sidetracked," and he starts talking.

Surprisingly, she grasps some of the things he says. She's not _stupid_, but Algebra's gotten on her wrong side so often that sometimes she wonders if maybe she just has some kind of unconscious vendetta against it, or fear of it, and that's why she doesn't make an effort. Because if she makes an effort and it doesn't work—maybe then she'll have to accept that she's just not that smart.

But Anoop's speech doesn't sound entirely incomprehensible to her. And granted, he's going over the same things over and over, probably hoping at least one of the repetitions won't go entirely over Megan's head, but she's sorta—she _gets_ it. After a while, she gets the problem they did at the beginning of their session, and she says, "Hey, I get that."

"Thank God," Anoop says, sounding genuinely relieved, and Megan just flicks her wrist.

"Keep talking," she suggests.

"What do you want to do now?" Anoop asks with a smile.

She shakes her head, though she's not sure what she's saying no to. "Go back to the basics of the problem. Like you did with it just now, but... with the basics."

"You don't know the basics?"

She doesn't _understand_ them all the time, is the thing, and hearing it all in Anoop's soothing voice makes it sound so much less frightening. "Just keep talking."

Her shirt still has the first three buttons undone, and the waistband of her skirt's ridden up to her waist while she shifted in the chair, so now the fabric is barely covering the upper half of her thighs. And her eyes are still set on Anoop's lips, watching them move, sometimes absorbing the words and sometimes just looking at them, vague like a hallucination, or observing his mouth, and she thinks they've made progress. Sufficient progress to justify this now.

"Megan, what are you doing," he says flatly when she lifts a leg and rests her foot on the desk, the plaid of her skirt falling down over her thigh to the point where she's sure he can see her green underwear. She runs a hand up her calf, adjusting her white sock on the way up to her knee, and then she's spreading her legs as far as the arms of the chair will let her. While his eyes are still following the movement of her hand, she slips her fingers inside her panties, and she presses the heel of her hand down against her core, warming up.

He looks up with a jerk, and she says, "Come on, keep talking." It doesn't sound as sexy as she wanted it to, but maybe that's why he relaxes—maybe that's why he looks her over and doesn't try to stop her. Maybe he's just a teenage boy, but it's—at this point, if everything Megan's done in the past hour has been a test, he would have passed it.

There's something incredibly hot about that, about doing this in front of someone who's showed self-restraint. Megan's slept with three boys in her life, and none of them ever rejected her advances—they mostly put in advances of their own—but it's not being _appreciated_ or at least considered more than just a piece of ass that's doing her in. It's how honest this is. How there's no show and Anoop's looking at her now like she's all he could look at, all he wants to look at, and the fact that he's not doing anything to stop her, but he's not doing anything to join her either makes something twitch under her motionless hand.

He's into _her_. She's pretty sure she's breaking school rules, and it's not the first time she does that, but it's the first time she's so aware of it. The first time she can't say she was caught up in the moment or persuaded by someone else—she's in a classroom in front of her _math tutor_, in full view despite the desk between them, and it only takes one more button for her left tit to slip out. His eyes follow that, too, follow the way Megan's left hand rises to circle her nipple with her fingertips.

She's not trying to put on a show, and the moan that leaves her lips is completely accidental, but it gets him talking.

It's all about polynomials again, his voice filling her ears, his eyes never looking away, and her brain actually registers some of the stuff, the stuff that falls in between moments of less clarity. She knows he can see the way her knuckles are bent, unmistakably so to find a comfortable angle for her arm. She's so _wet_, like she doesn't remember being in ages, and she's doing nothing yet. She's just listening to him, looking at his lips and getting wetter on _math talk_.

Her fingertips find pooling slickness when they glide down, lightly teasing herself, and maybe she's waiting for a word. A change in the pace of Anoop's speech. Something.

"Megan, jesus, what are you doing," Anoop says again, a complicit whisper this time, and Megan can't help the grin that spreads over her face.

"Yeah," she moans inanely, and slips a finger in. She wants to take her underwear off, but it'd take too long, so she just pushes the strap of cloth covering her to a side with the back of her hand, and his eyes go wide. "Keep talking," she urges. She wishes she could see more of him. She wishes he had the decency to take the chair further back, let her see how hard he is. Pull it out and touch himself. _Reciprocate_.

"How do you even expect me to concentrate on anything?" he asks, and his arm disappears under the table.

"Victory," she mutters, amused, though he doesn't seem to be doing anything with that arm yet. It's a step in the right direction, though, and she allows her fingers to brush against her clit harder, focus on getting off. She really, _really_ needs to get off. It's not a show. She doesn't want to put on a show. She just wants to do herself and see what he does about it. She hasn't told him not to touch her. She hasn't told him not to _anything_. She's only told him to talk.

"I don't get why you're so... like this," Anoop says, and then he's just _off_, talking like she's pulled on some cord. "It's like you _want_ to throw your future out the window. I know this isn't—I guess this isn't about that, or maybe it is, I have no idea. I'm not your therapist, am I supposed to have any idea why you're—?" She shakes her head, slips a finger inside her pussy alongside the other. "_Fuck_, that's beautiful. But it's not what you should be _doing_. You should really focus on this. It's not just cheer camp or whatever you want to do this summer—it's, can't you do this when you're not supposed to be studying? Don't misunderstand me, I appreciate the show—"

"It's not a show," Megan says, "I'll give you a show sometime."

"—but I'm your _tutor_. Because you need one. And I just don't want to be responsible for distracting you any more than you already do by—," he chokes on his words. "All by yourself," he finishes, and it sets something off in her chest and she laughs. Her fingers are slipping in and out so easily, and she can barely process what he says afterwards, just random shit like _I'm not that nice a guy_ and _holy shit, can I fuck you?_, and she's nodding at that last thing, nodding like her head can't stop, but neither one of them moves to make it happen. She can't _move_, she needs to keep touching herself. She presses her thumb harder against her clit, tight-knit circles as she fingers herself.

"So fucking hot," he gasps, and she hears the sound of a zipper going down, the slick friction of skin against skin, of Anoop's hand finding his dick and wrapping around it, sliding up. She hears it all, or at least she hears some of it and vividly makes up the rest.

It's only a few seconds before her fingers find the right rhythm, the right angle, and she's not going to last a lot longer now. She keeps thinking about driving herself almost to the edge and pushing the desk aside, kneeling before him, sucking him off before he even notices she's left the chair, but she can't—she's too close now, but she'd do it if he just _asked_. She wants him to ask. It's not—this is _new_, not something that's ever crossed her mind with anybody else. Maybe all those issues with authority the school counselor keeps telling her about would be solved if the authorities she had to deal with were a little more intelligent and worthy of trust.

Anoop doesn't ask, of course he doesn't, but he says, "I can't believe I'm doing this," and there's a formal tone to his voice, betrayed only by a vague undulation in the volume of the words. His free hand loosens his tie, _yes_, and comes up over the desk to wrap around her ankle, her black shoe falling to the floor with a clack and his hand's crawling up her calf, dragging her sock down.

His fingers dig into skin then, his hands so fucking big over her leg, and just that bit of actual contact makes her jerk, takes her over the edge. Her mouth goes slack and her hips buck, the back of the chair sticking almost painfully into her shoulder blades, and she keeps her eyes on Anoop and he keeps his eyes on her, just watching, like he's trying to take in what every bit of Megan's skin looks like when she's coming.

He's breathing hard, is the first thing she realizes when she opens her eyes again, and she somehow gathers the physical strength to climb on the desk, sit down facing Anoop. From this angle she can see _everything_—and she could easily lower herself on him, but he's so close, and it would take her a while to find a condom, so she concentrates on helping out.

"So you liked that, huh," she says, and grabs his hand, now resting weakly on the wooden desk. She lifts his fingers to her chest, works that hand under her half-open shirt, wraps his fingers around herself. As soon as she stops directing him, he squeezes her breast, pinches her nipple between his thumb and index finger, and _whimpers_, this really adorable noise that somehow manages to be really, really hot to her ears. She wants to hear it again so badly.

She thinks it would be so easy to surprise him like that again, and she drops to her knees to finish him off. There's no way he's gonna last long enough for a blowjob to be worth it, so she just wraps her fingers around his fist and follows the movement once, twice, until he lets go and she takes over.

"Oh my God," he groans, looking down. She tries not to count, to be _nice_, but she's not that nice of a girl either, and she knows it only takes Anoop five strokes of her hand to spill long and hard over her wrist, white strands of come striding along her forearm as he moans her name, drawing the _n_ out into long intakes of air.

She wipes her hand off on a handful of pages from his notebook and watches as he notices that and rolls his eyes.

"Oh, man, I suck," Anoop despairs.

Megan just chuckles. "We don't know that yet."

Anoop shakes his head. "I get credit for this, you know. For _tutoring_," but he's smiling like he can't help himself.

It's understandable. "Well, I'm one satisfied customer. I can speak in your favor to the board." At that, Anoop's eyes go wide. "Or not." She straddles his knees. "I like you," she says, sounding surprised to her own ears. "I want to christen more pieces of school furniture with you."

"You do," he says, incredulous.

"Actually, yeah."

"But you still need that B+ for cheer camp."

"Yeah," she muses. "There's still a month left until finals, we'll work something out. A reward system."

"Rewards for whom?"

"Both of us. I think you still deserve one. You were very patient," she says, amused. "I may just have the perfect thing for you."

"Should I be excited or terrified?"

Megan shrugs. "I think you should kiss me."

"Should?"

It scares her for a second, that maybe she's read him wrong. That maybe this is all wrong, oh God. She pulls herself together, though, and shakes her head no. "I _want_ you to kiss me." It's not an out she's giving him. It's some sort of authority, like veto power. Like everything she wants to do to him should go through him first, be _approved_.

She's pulling on Anoop's tie, bringing him closer, just slightly. The space between their mouths is significant—kissing her like this would be a conscious decision, something Anoop can't blame on her.

"You're lucky our time is over," Anoop says with a smirk, and she'll be damned if she's let herself be inadvertently seduced by a math nerd. Such a low.

"Yeah?" she says, and he presses their mouths together.

It's so _chaste_. She thinks it might go further, but it's just _kissing_, lips gliding along lips and fitting together and being really, really mellow, like the first chapter of a book, a beginning that's something whole on its own. Somehow, maybe deliriously, it makes Megan feel pretty, in some universe where being pretty is a transcendent matter.

Megan has no idea what she's doing here, but she knows she likes it.


End file.
